Sharpe's Stand
by Stanley Marlowe
Summary: Set in between "Sharpe's Rifles" and "Sharpe's Havoc", this story deals with Sharpe as he fights against the French, and incompetence on his own side. Along with him are the redoubtable characters that Sharpe fans know and love.
1. Chapter 1

**Sharpe's Stand**

_Stanley Marlowe_

Chapter One

_Portugal__, not far from the Spanish border_, _April 1809_

It was a cold, rainy day in Portugal. Yet it was no excuse for people to do their duties of the day. There were fields to till, livestock to herd, and young children to educate.

The birds that often sung in the sky, now sheltered in the trees as drops pelted the ground. Thunder occasionally erupted on the horizon.

In a patch of forest, a group of riflemen struggled to stay dry.

One rifleman watched the dark clouds slowly moving.

He had a long scar down his face, giving him a mocking look, except when he smiled.

He was 6 foot exactly, and had been a soldier for most of his life.

Unlike some other officers, he wore a large heavy cavalry sword. On his back was slung a rifle.

His name was Sharpe. Lieutenant Richard Sharpe of the 95th Rifles. He had fought in Flanders, India, Denmark, and now he fought Napoleon Bonaparte in Portugal. Sharpe had been caught in the winter of 1809, the year when the French drove the British out of Spain. He had been lost, while leading a number of fugitive riflemen. He had led those men out of that disaster, and into Lisbon, where the British still held a garrison.

"Miserable goddamn weather." Sharpe growled as a fork of lightening crossed the dark sky.

"Couldn't agree with you more, Richard." Hogan spoke up suddenly.

Sharpe was surprised, "I thought you were asleep."

Michael Hogan, Irishman, captain and Engineer, was finding Sharpe and his riflemen a bonus on his journey mapping Portuguese country. He and Sharpe were becoming good friends.

But this day, for Sharpe and Hogan and the thirty riflemen whom Sharpe had brought along, was a bad day to go anywhere.

"…Never was the bloody weather this bloody bad in bloody Donegal before," grumbled an Irish sergeant four inches taller than Sharpe's six feet, with muscles to match. He was a ferocious fighter. Yet, in truth, he was a good-hearted fellow. His name was Patrick Harper, and he was Sharpe's closest friend.

"Easy there, Pat. At least you're not marching," Sharpe retorted. He thought of when, just this winter, they had been worst enemies.

It had not just been Harper. Most of the riflemen had not been very happy with Sharpe. He knew why. Sharpe was one of the few men in the British army to rise up from the ranks. It had been in India, at the battle of Assaye. Sergeant Sharpe had rescued Sir Arthur Wellesley from certain death, and in return, he had promoted Sharpe to Ensign.

Now he was a lieutenant, in Portugal, helping Hogan map the countryside.

"Sir! Company of soldiers on their way!" Rifleman Pendleton called out.

"French or British?" Sharpe asked.

"Ours, sir. And some Portuguese lads!" Rifleman Perkins answered.

Sharpe yawned, and turned to look at the hundred or so redcoats, and another thirty brown-coated Portuguese.

"Shall we signal to them, sir?" Rifleman Cooper asked.

Sharpe shrugged, "Why not? The rain is clearing a bit."

He and Hogan chose ten riflemen and stepped into a patch of forest clearing.

The newcomers, seeing the captain and eleven riflemen, quickened their pace. They seemed to be led by a major, two captains, and three sergeants.

Sharpe grimaced. He wished he could afford to purchase the rank of captain. He was lucky to even be a lieutenant.

By now the men had caught up. They looked like they had marched for a while.

Sharpe eyed the major. He looked like he would be quite at home at Buckingham Palace. He wore a finely jewelled sword, but despite its gaudiness, Sharpe knew it would serve very well in a fight. As for the owner, he was less certain.

The captain in front looked nineteen. He was cheerful, despite for the fact that he was soaked to the bone. He had a curved sword, and a hat that looked a better fit for a man twice as big as the thin captain.

The redcoats all had muskets, and the Portuguese had rifles. They looked more than able to fight.

Hogan nodded at the major, "Captain Michael Hogan. Engineer. What brings you to this flood?"

The major bridled at not receiving a salute, but responded all the same, "Major Nathan Hartford. I am leading two companies of the 22nd, and a band of locals who serve as guides."

It was clear that Hartford had no fondness for the Portuguese. Sharpe looked at them. They looked angry, so they doubtless understood English.

Hogan nodded to Sharpe, "Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Richard Sharpe. 95th Rifles."

Hartford stared at Sharpe, who stared back. Eventually, Hartford spoke up, "Lieutenant eh? You look quite old to be a lieutenant."

Sharpe's voice was heavy with defiance, "Rose up from the ranks, _sir_."

Hartford made no response, merely lifting his eyebrows up to disappear into his auburn hair.

After a minute, he waved a hand towards the captains with the other men, "This is Captain Terry Lewis and Captain Andrew MacGall. And sergeants Horace, Calumn, and O' Connelly." The sergeants saluted briskly.

Hartford shrugged, "I'm on patrol. I found it immensely pointless to stay at Lisbon for another month, so I do something productive."

"Good for bloody you." Sharpe said, but only so Hogan heard him.

Hartford glanced at the two men, "So have you seen any enemy soldiers?"

"There's a new man supposed to be patrolling this area for the French. A man named Brigadier Herron," Hogan replied.

Hartford snorted, "A full Brigadier out here? Surely not. The French army wouldn't possibly spend a full Brigadier out here."

Hogan smiled at this man's naivety. The French needed to spend many men to guarding their supplies and keeping the locals in check. The guerrillas were causing far more damage than the British ever could.

Neither he nor Sharpe said anything; it was clear by this captain's expression that he would never listen to them anyway.

Meanwhile, the rest of the riflemen came out of hiding. They stood to attention behind Sharpe and Hogan, matching the troops behind Hartford.

Hartford glanced at the men in surprise, "Thirty-something rifles alone here? I thought the Rifles were in England!"

Sharpe spoke up, "We got left behind in the retreat. Now we stay here where the fighting is." He did not elaborate on the horror and disorganization of the retreat in the dead of winter. The long slog back to Corunna, and how Sharpe had been left with fifty of the 95th Rifles in the middle of nowhere. They had eventually made it back south, where Captain Hogan had brought them to the British troops in Portugal, just as the French were massing to drive them into the sea.

"May I suggest you stay with us? There is safety in numbers." Hartford offered.

"I'll certainly keep it in mind. But I don't think it is wholly necessary. I have absolute faith in Lieutenant Sharpe and these troops. Good day." Hogan tipped his hat to Hartford and signaled for the riflemen to follow him. Sharpe marched closely after Hogan, eager to not have to see Major Hartford if he could help it.

**Author's Note:** _I do not own the redoubtable Sharpe series. I do own a number of characters I'm going to introduce in this story. I also am very glad that they finally made a Sharpe category on _


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Sharpe had laughed as soon as they had left the two companies of the 22nd behind, "The bloody pompous bastard!"

Hogan made no comment to that, except to utter a curse after a pinch of his beloved snuff.

They had continued on despite the rain. Some had grumbled, but Sharpe was good at solving problems like that. Soon, Rifleman Williamson and Rifleman Tarrant were at the back of the column, carrying extra baggage.

Sharpe marched with Harper, Daniel Hagman, Harris and Isaiah Tongue in front.

Daniel Hagman was the oldest man in the company, and the best shot. He was valuable, for the old poacher possessed a charisma that made all men like him.

Isaiah Tongue and Harris were Sharpe's two educated men. Both were valuable when interpreters or problem-solvers were needed. Plus, they were expert shots. No one was in the Rifles without being accurate.

Sharpe looked behind to where a tall, thin Rifleman with a stubbly black beard and black hair down to his shoulders singing in a clear, almost charmed voice. His name was Oliver Sanders, and he had sung for the miners while being a miner himself. But after a night with another man's woman, he was a marked man. He had fled as fast as he could, and had practically run into the army barracks. Now he spent his time fighting, sleeping, eating, and softening army life with his beautiful singing voice, and his cheerful mood. Sharpe had always thought it a pity that such a sweet voice would one day be forever silenced.

Three more days of quick marching, wit, and combined vocals from Sanders and flute from Hagman, brought them into a large, fortified Portuguese town. Hogan looked pleased and relieved to see the defences and uniformed soldiers. Sharpe turned to his men, "You marched as good as any proper Riflemen should." They looked pleased at that compliment.

Sharpe gave a smile, which concealed the scar on his face, "So go ahead and get drunk. You've earned it!" That raised a cheer. They scattered, Tongue heading a group that went into a tavern. Harper laughed. Tongue was a good rifleman, but the worst drunkard of the pack when exposed to drink.

Sharpe, Hagman, Harper, and some others went through the large town. They passed a brothel, where a few whores called out to them.

Sharpe, Hagman, and Hogan passed on, wanting something to eat, but Sanders and Perkins had seen how pretty the women were, and went in. Harper smiled at the prospect, but decided to move on.

Hagman grinned at the man next to him, "Those boys with Tongue are going to be quite a sorry sight tomorrow, eh Wilkins?"

Adam Wilkins smiled. He was a wiry man in his late twenties. He, like Sharpe himself, had grown up in the gutters of London, fighting dirty, and thieving. He had a skill for quietly doing away with people, but it didn't stop him getting caught for murder. He had taken the King's Shilling and had joined the Rifles just a day before his scheduled execution.

Sharpe and the remaining men went on. They stopped at a large tavern that looked really nice.

"Finally. Something decent." A strangely familiar voice beside Sharpe called out.

Sharpe turned. It was Major Hartford, his two captains, and three sergeants.

He noticed Sharpe for the first time. He grimaced, and walked in.

Captain Lewis, however, smiled a greeting. Sharpe nodded in reply.

"You'll have to forgive the Major, sir." Lewis shrugged apologetically, and followed Hartford inside. Sharpe, after a sigh of regret, went in. He was too hungry to keep looking for another place.

Inside, he saw that there was a big table left. He, Harper, Hogan, and Hagman took seats. A serving girl came up, "Anything to eat, sirs?"

Sharpe answered first, "I'd like some meat. Beef."

Hagman and Harper both ordered a pint of ale and _caldo verde_, a Portuguese potato soup.

Hogan lit his pipe, "I think I'll have some _tábua do fumeiro_, please." It was Portuguese sausages.

Sharpe ate his steak, savouring the flavour in each bite. It was, after all, probably the last good meal he would have for a while. But in the back of his mind, he wondered how he could possibly pay for this. In India, he had found immense wealth after killing the Tippoo Sultan and taking his jewels. However, in the midst of a scandal back in England that involved him and a woman who had lived with him and then died in childbirth, he had lost all his money to a pack of scavenging lawyers who had claimed the child was not his.

'Bastards', he thought, thinking of those men, who made him think of Grace, and a tear welled in his eye.

Hagman and Harper were groping in their packs for some coins. A British soldier's wages were low, and made even lower from deductions for lost equipment, food, and things like that.

Hogan, being the kind man he was, waved away Hagman's hand, "No need for that, lads. This is on me tonight."

Sharpe was secretly relieved that Hogan had made this gesture, but said nothing but a nod of thanks. Hogan understood well enough and said nothing of it.

Later, Sharpe and Harper were leaning against the wall of a church. Harper passed the time by whistling several different tunes. Sharpe listened to the noises in the night. Some squeals of laughter floated down from the upstairs windows of the brothel across the street.

Sharpe yawned, "Pat?"

Harper stopped whistling, "Yes?"

Sharpe lowered his shako to cover his eyes, "You ever think of people you've left behind?"

Harper shrugged, "Any sensible man would, sir. Who doesn't hope for their dear mother back home in Tangaveane?"

Sharpe grunted, "Not what I meant, but fair enough."

Harper looked at his lieutenant, "You never wonder about your mother, sir?"

Sharpe felt bitter; "She might as well be dead for all I know of her. Which is more than I can say for my father, whoever the bloody hell he was."

Harper sighed, "Even an English bastard like you must have a place to look forward to seeing after Boney's gotten a bloody nose." He was referring to the name that all of the British troops called Napoleon.

Sharpe shook his head, "No. No Donegal for me."

Harper chuckled at the sarcastic joke, "God save Ireland, but I'd like to see it again."

Sharpe grimaced, "Glad you'd like to go home." He had no home outside of the army.

It was the truth for him, and many others. Some, like Wilkins the killer and Hagman the poacher, had had no choice other than punishment or the ranks. Others, like Harper, had been hungry and also had no choice, despite their hatred of the English. For many, there was no home to go back to. They were soldiers for life, and nothing else.

Sharpe lay down, "So what's waiting for you back home?"

Harper yawned, "Poor soil, golden shores, the Gaelic language, and you bastard English."

Sharpe chuckled, which turned into laughter. Harper also started laughing as they watched Tongue, in a drunken state, march along with a pint in either hand, singing out 'Over the hills and far Away' alongside the staggering forms of Cresacre, Williamson, Gataker, and a man named Clyde Roan who came from the north of England and spoke with a heavy accent.

And Richard Sharpe turned over. He was a lieutenant, a Rifleman, and for now, he was content in his position.

"" "" "" "" """" "" "" ""

The next day, Tongue and fifteen other riflemen were feeling miserable and wretched. It was in such a state, that Hogan decided that they should wait another day.

Sharpe stood on the wall facing to the west. He felt the sun behind him as he stared blankly at the landscape and the blue sky.

"Bom Manhä, senhor." A voice said behind him.

Sharpe turned, "Good morning to you too." He greeted Portuguese soldier who had spoken. He was one of the men with Hartford.

He grinned and spoke in English, "You know my language, senhor?"

Sharpe shook his head, "Just the odd word."

The man looked quite formidable. He was about Sharpe's height, and built like Harper. He had on the clothes that wouldn't have looked out of place at a farm. He carried his rifle slung on his back, and at his waist he wore a long skinning knife. Judging by the stubble beard he wore, he couldn't have been older than thirty-six, and no younger than twenty.

He stuck out his hand, "Alexandre Madeira."

"Richard Sharpe," Both men shook hands. "You're with Major Hartford?"

Madeira looked bitter at that, "I only with him because his…wages? Yes. Wages. He pays scouts well, but with great reluctance, it seems."

Sharpe sighed, "I'll never understand how you Portuguese always get put under such miserable bloody dancing pomps as Hartford."

Madeira grinned, "Because the fighting men are needed in the ranks. It is they who do the real fighting no?"

Sharpe smiled. He saw a man like him in Madeira.

The labourers were already at work in the fields surrounding the town, and merchants were selling their wares. In this corner of Portugal, war had not yet destroyed the routines of the common people.

Sharpe went with Madeira to the town well for a drink of water and found Harper sitting there, picking at the spaces in his teeth with a sliver of wood. Also sitting there was Wilkins, rubbing at his eyes wearily.

Sharpe introduced Madeira to Harper and Wilkins, who was the only one of the three riflemen to speak good Portuguese. He began speaking enthusiastically with Madeira.  
Sharpe sat down, not even trying to follow the sudden conversation between Wilkins and Madeira.  
Harper grinned as he handed Sharpe a tin cup to drink from, "So how's that Portuguese fellow, sir?"

"A bloody soldier, that's what he is."

"Aye, well. Then he's too good for that bugger."

Sharpe looked at him, "Hartford?"

"Who else, sir?"

Sharpe nodded.

The rest of the day seemed to go extra slowly. Sharpe wished he could head out; he hated being lazy when there was duty to fill out. He even grew tired of Sanders' singing and Hagman's pipes. They had joined up with men from the 22nd Regiment to form a little band. From his place by the wall, Sharpe could hear pipes being played to Sanders' song.

"Well, isn't this a surprise."

Sharpe turned to look at Hartford, who had materialized out of nowhere. The major was leading his horse by the reins, as though he was preparing to go riding.

Sharpe looked sour, "I thought you were patrolling the land?"

Hartford frowned, "I hardly think it's any of your business lieutenant. And for that matter, you fail once again to address me properly."

Sharpe growled, "I address men with the respect they earn, school boy."

Hartford's face flushed with temper, and he seemed tempted to hit at Sharpe with his horsewhip. But he saw sense and headed out past the rifleman.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Sharpe spat as Hartford rode off to exercise his horse.

"Pardon me there, lieutenant."

Sharpe turned. It was the lanky Captain that had seemed to distance himself from Hartford's pompousness. He seemed apprehensive of Sharpe.

And no wonder, for Sharpe was a rough-looking man. Wild black hair, along with a long scar down his face made many think twice before speaking to him.

Sharpe recognized Lewis' nervousness, and stepped forward, "We've met before, Captain."

Lewis smiled in relief at Sharpe's courteous behaviour and shook hands with the rifleman, "Aye, but not under kind circumstance."

Sharpe grunted, "Begging your pardon…"

Lewis cut him off, "Oh no, no, please. I can't stand the bastard myself, even if he is my major."

Sharpe glanced back to where Hartford had disappeared, "What in all bloody hell is he doing out here?"

Lewis shrugged, "He's trying to show he's doing his duty but all he's really doing is wasting our time and supplies. We know there's nobody out here."

Hogan suddenly appeared out of nowhere, a pinch of snuff held between his fingers, "Except for Brigadier Herron. They say he's a tough soldier. Fought at Austerlitz under Bonaparte himself. He's been sent down here to clear the way for Marshall Soult." Soult was planning an invasion of Portugal, intending to drive out the British occupying force, which was tiny compared to the armies that Napoleon was willing to throw at Portugal.  
Lewis faltered, responding hesitantly, "Hartford's denied it."

Sharpe frowned, "Denied it?"  
Lewis shrugged, "We heard about this Brigadier from several Portuguese before we ran into you. Hartford's denying it all, saying that the Portuguese were bribed or collaborating, and he's talking of reporting you and Hogan as being insolent."

Sharpe frowned, "What are you talking about? What does he have to gain from all this?"

Lewis shrugged, "General Craddock wants to send a positive report back to the Horse Guards."

Sharpe cursed. General Craddock was the man in charge of the British army in Portugal. In Sharpe's opinion, they needed a man more like his former commander, Arthur Wellesley. Sharpe had a fondness, but also somewhat of a nervousness of Wellesley. He had saved the General's life at Assaye, in India, and it had been Wellesley who had promoted him to the officer class. Sharpe had always found Craddock to be incompetent, and would much rather have preferred a man like Wellesley or his rival, General Baird. Both men knew how to lead soldiers.

Captain Lewis continued, "Craddock ordered him to ensure that there's no trouble down here. And the Major owes this one to Craddock."

Sharpe frowned, "How's that?"

Lewis shrugged nervously, and looked over his shoulder as though Major Hartford would spring out of thin air.

Sharpe coaxed him to speak, "What does Craddock have on Hartford?"

Lewis shuddered, "Best not tell, sir. If he figures that I told you, I'm done for. I'll be demoted, brought up on charges of incompetency, sent back in chains."

Sharpe sighed. The young man did seem like a bit of a drunk. Maybe his father had paid for a commission to get his son out of trouble, Sharpe thought. He'd seen that happen many times.

Just then, Wilkins and Madeira walked up, saluting both men, "Good morning."

Lewis immediately lit up, "Ah! Hello there, good man!" He turned to Wilkins, pausing as he looked at the scarred, tough face, and repeated his cheerful good morning. Wilkins smiled, though it did not much help Lewis' impression of him.

Madeira spoke to Lewis, "Shall we be leaving soon, sir?"

Lewis faltered, then shook his head, "No, I don't think so. Not yet."

Madeira nodded and grinned to Sharpe in greetings.

It was clear to Sharpe that Madeira was the better leader and the better soldier than Lewis, but unlike Hartford, Lewis seemed to radiate some strange kind of charisma. Madeira clearly liked the young man. Sharpe himself couldn't help but like him too.

Madeira turned to Sharpe, "Major Hartford is riding?"

Sharpe nodded.

Madeira looked relieved, "Good. Best when he's not around, no?"

Sharpe looked at Wilkins, "Seen Hogan around?"

Wilkins shook his head, "Not once today."

Madeira smiled ruefully, "I wish I was with him instead of Hartford. He is a good man. I know him from when he once came to my village."

Lewis looked a bit uneasy; Hartford must have knuckled him under his thumb. Sharpe recognized a potential in Lewis, but knew that under the wrong teacher, it would never come out.

He looked at Madeira, "So how in the bloody hell did you get mixed in with Hartford?"

Madeira shrugged, "I was leading a band of men through the countryside, and came up to Major Hartford. He offered me wages, I join him. A week later I meet up with you."

Sharpe was still a bit puzzled, "So how did you get yourself those rifles?" He had earlier noted that the Portuguese mercenaries had been armed with Baker rifles with much spare ammunition.  
Madeira grinned, "That's what Hogan was doing in my village."

He meant that Hogan had supplied the Portuguese with good weapons to encourage guerrilla bands to strike against the vastly outnumbering French armies.

Just then, Hogan emerged from between the houses, dragging a rifleman with him, "Lieutenant!"

Sharpe gave a casual salute towards his friend, "Sir!"

"We've got ourselves a troublemaker here!"

It was Cresacre. Bloody Cresacre. If Sharpe had to pick his five most troublesome men, he'd pick Williamson, Tarrant, Gataker, Sims, and Donnelly, but Cresacre would be number six. The man was an abusive man, based on how he treated his women in camp. They often ran off after a few days to find another protector, and Cresacre would continue to find others. The man was also prone to complain and drink.

Sharpe looked at the sour-faced Cresacre. The man was a fine rifleman, one of the best shots, but he was a cruel bully at times, "What did this man do?"

Hogan tightened his grip, "Found him trying to start a bar fight, Sharpe. He'd drawn his knife and was about to start a fight."

Cresacre growled, "You'd blame a man for standing up to a bunch of Portuguese pigs?" Madeira looked at him sharply, but checked his anger at the fact that Cresacre's voice was slightly slurred. He was still in a hangover.

Sharpe grabbed Cresacre, "Private Cresacre, tell me what my three rules are."

Cresacre sneered, "Not to steal unless you're starving, to fight like the devil, and to not get drunk without your permission, sir."

Sharpe didn't like the tone that Cresacre was giving him. He would have been cowed by now, but the man was still confidant of the drink in his stomach.

Sharpe sighed. He should have been more careful about his men's alcohol intake.

Wilkins spoke up, "Shall I deal with this milksop?" There was more threat in his calm voice than in the foulest bestial snarl.

Cresacre paled as he stared into Wilkins' sadistic face. Wilkins had few good friends among the riflemen. He was more of a loner, but one of their deadliest fighters. The riflemen respected him, and some feared him more than they feared the enemy.

Sharpe was privately relieved at this break-in: Wilkins was a loyal man, recognizing Sharpe as being from the same hell that had spawned Wilkins. He was glad to help his lieutenant.

Sharpe shook his head, "Take him to Harper and explain everything. He'll settle it."

This answer did little to relieve Cresacre, but he allowed himself to be taken away by Wilkins. Hogan sighed and followed after them.

Lewis looked nervous, "Er, would you have handed him over to Wilkins?"

Sharpe laughed, "For being drunk? Wilkins would deal with troublemakers so that they'd be begging for something simple like a gelding or an amputation. I'd never unleash him on my own men."

Lewis began to sweat. Sharpe was amused at how Wilkins affected men less cruel than himself, but he privately hoped never to make an enemy as deadly as Wilkins.

"Richard! We're going! Round up the troops!" Hogan called out.

Sharpe smiled, gave a salute to Lewis, shook Madeira's hand again, and wished him well.

Then he went to get his riflemen.

It was time to march out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Hogan smelled the air and gave an enthusiastic exhale, "Ahhhh. It's good to be alive, Richard."

Sharpe smirked, "Why the sudden joy, sir?"

Hogan grinned, "It's what we call morning optimism."

Sharpe looked back ahead. They were nearing a large hill. Strangely, smoke was rising from an unseen source.

"Come on Richard! Pick six men, and come with me." Hogan led his horse up the hill.

Sharpe ran to catch up, calling out, "Hagman! Perkins! Cresacre! Wilkins! Dodd! Slattery!"

The six riflemen he had named ran up to the top of the hill. They stood there with Hogan and Sharpe as all eight of them viewed the scene.

It was a village. Burned and massacred. Smoke billowed from the building Sharpe knew had been a church. Muffled screams faintly came out of the buildings.

"Sweet Jesus!" Sharpe cursed.

"There sir!" Cresacre pointed to where five Frenchmen lounged, standing on guard.

"Shall I hit one sir?" Hagman asked, as he and the quiet Dodd aimed their rifles.

"No. Not yet. We'll take them out quietly. Wilkins?" Sharpe ordered.

Wilkins' eyes lit up, remembering London's gutter and alleys; he then gave his rifle to Hagman and started down the hill.

He and Perkins went first, followed by Sharpe, Slattery and Cresacre. Hagman and Dodd would provide cover fire. Hogan turned back to summon the rest of the riflemen.

Wilkins crept noiselessly towards the five French. He picked up a rock, and sent it to hit a boot. The five men, as he had hoped, scattered in different directions.

He pounced on the one furthest out of sight of the other four, and shoved a rag into his mouth. Quickly drawing his long knife, he sliced once across the throat.

Dropping the bleeding body, he gave a grunt of satisfaction and went to find the other four.

In less than six minutes, five Frenchman lay with slit throats. Wilkins was good at his work.

By the time he came back, the rest of the riflemen had arrived.

"Anyone saw you?" Sharpe asked.

"No one I saw, sir." Wilkins replied, and added, "There are some men their torturing. And they're having their fun with some Portuguese girls."

Sharpe felt his insides swell with rage.

"Come on." Sharpe signalled to his riflemen. Hogan charged with the rest.

Sharpe and Hogan both had swords drawn. Hogan's was curved and light, but Sharpe's was different. Instead of a light curved sword, he had a straight, heavy cavalry sword. It felt right for him; it was a brutal blade, which could be used to beat and bludgeon an enemy to death.

Hogan and Sharpe burst into the first house. There was a man with bayonet wounds in him, trying to crawl away. Two Frenchmen were kicking him in the ribs. Sharpe buried his blade into one man's spine, and Hogan parried with the other, finishing him off quickly.

The old man gave a rattle of breath, and went still. Hogan made a sign of the cross.

Sharpe went outside. Frenchmen were stumbling outside, others trying to fight. The riflemen killed them quick enough. Parry Jenkins was throttling a man twice his size, while Will Boris, a burly pugilist from Southampton, shot another man clean through the eye. Christopher Judson, a quiet man who had worked at a farm, tilling the soil and slaughtering livestock, was stabbing a Frenchman through the heart with the disgust he felt for Napoleon and his army.

One man came at Sharpe, wielding a bayonet and screaming. Sharpe felt the animal rage rise in him. He gave a howl of fury and ducked under the blade, lunging out with his knee. He had fought dirty half his life. The Frenchman doubled in pain of the knee in his groin. Sharpe, mouth in a fearsome snarl, swung the sword in his hands like a butcher, hacking down once, twice, three times. Blood spurted onto him.

"He's dead, sir!" Rifleman Harris called out, astonished at the ferocity with which his leader killed.

Sharpe felt his head clear a little. He grunted, looking at the mangled corpse.

Harper walked up to Sharpe, blood on his hands. "It's not mine, sir," He said when Sharpe asked about the blood, "just came to tell you there are five survivors. The rest are dead. No casualties for us. We had them outnumbered and by surprise. No wounds either, except for Harvey. A scratch on his forearm. At the worst he'll have a scar."

Sharpe nodded. "Where are the survivors?"

Harper shrugged, "In one of the houses, sir. Most of their families are dead. The French spared no one,' His voice broke for a second, 'No one other than those we saved, sir." Patrick Harper, in truth, had a sentimental and kind soul, and he hated such sights as these villages where children, men, and women were butchered without a chance.

Sharpe sighed. He followed Harper to a small house. There were five women there. The oldest one was thirty-five, the youngest fourteen. All had been raped, and they wept uncontrollably.

"What do we do now sir?" Hagman asked Hogan.

Hogan answered, "We stay here until someone comes." He attempted to talk to them, but that only made the fourteen-year old cry harder.

Sharpe nodded respectfully, and was about to leave when he saw, through the doorway, a cloud of dust in the distance, "Sir!"

Hogan looked, "Who do you suppose they are?"

Sharpe squinted, and saw that the horsemen had light green uniforms, "French."

Behind the horses, he could see infantry. There was even a howitzer cannon.

Sharpe swore. This was a small army.

He could see a group of officers in front. The man leading them looked well dressed, and at the same time, ruthlessly savage. Maybe it was because he had a long scar over what once was his left eye, Sharpe thought.

He halted his forces, drew out a white handkerchief, and waved it twice from his sword point.

Hogan took two horses, and he and Sharpe rode to speak to the man.

The man looked to be well experienced. He was in his late forties, and looked as though he could outmarch any man in the ranks behind him.

The man gave a bow in his saddle, "My name is Brigadier Bayard Herron. Those men in the village were part of my brigade."

Hogan responded, "Captain Michael Hogan of the Engineers, and Lieutenant Richard Sharpe of the 95th."

Herron looked with a sneer at the rifleman, "He lets others talk for him?"

Sharpe spat, "I don't care if this is a truce, I'll bloody butcher you if you don't curb your damn tongue."

Herron smiled, "Ah. I have many sorts as you among my men."

Sharpe cocked his head to the side, "And I suppose they were among those we killed?"

Herron nodded, knowing that he was being challenged, "Indeed, Sharpe. It appears you caught my men by surprise. We are normally not so easy to defeat."

Sharpe smiled, "Nor am I, General, nor am I. The rifles are the best, the elite. We could match you if it came to a battle."

Herron smiled cunningly, "If you are as successful as you say, why are you a mere lieutenant when I have lieutenant colonels your age?"

Sharpe stared at him defiantly, "I rose up from the ranks. That's why."

Herron looked impressed. He knew the fact that one officer in twenty rose up from the ranks in the British army.

The General spoke again, "So, my men who were in the village are all dead?"

Sharpe looked defiantly at the Frenchman, "They're dead, and any of you goddamn Frogs will die if you cross me again."

Stung by the use of one of Britain's nicknames for the French, Herron emitted a low growl from within his throat, "Are you threatening me, Lieutenant?"

Sharpe leered, "That wasn't a bloody threat, it was a goddamn promise."

Herron smiled dangerously, "I would be willing to see you try."

Sharpe raised his voice so any Frenchman who knew English would hear him, "I don't need to try to kill you bastards! It's you who should try to kill us!"

Herron's face turned into a savage snarl, "Is that all you have to say?"

Hogan responded, "Indeed. So you can just leave now."

The General spat angrily, and then smiled vengefully, "So be it. But it is not over. No one kills my men and lives to talk about it. You and Mister Sharpe will die before the month is over." He turned to Sharpe, "A pity. You would be a major in my brigade."

He turned his horse around, and went back over the hill.

Hogan smiled dryly at Sharpe, "You know how to pick a fight, don't you?" He asked sarcastically.

Sharpe stared at Herron's retreating figure, "You'd better bloody believe it."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Sharpe and Hogan returned to the village. The riflemen asked a thousand questions, but there was no time to answer them all.

Hogan rubbed his palms together, "Well, I believe we have made a dangerous enemy, Richard."

Sharpe shrugged. That was the truth. General Herron had a brigade, they were a mere thirty riflemen. Plus, Herron knew how to use his soldiers to win a victory.

But so did Sharpe.

Rifleman Hagman looked at the French on the hill, "Sitting there, just picking their noses they are."

Harper nodded, "That bastard wants to know our numbers."

Hogan laughed, "He'd also like to kill us."

The standoff continued. They stood alert, waiting for the assault that was due to come. Sharpe wondered why Herron would bother with such a petty group of riflemen but knew that his orders had been to eliminate any opposition to the French occupation. He and his riflemen were the only opposition in the area. Williamson complained, and received a black eye from Sergeant Harper. Sharpe thought it odd that Harper had become such a scourge of the troublemaker, when he had been one of them only a few months ago.

Hogan looked at the figure of the General. "That bugger won't give up."

Sharpe smiled, "Nor would I. But I have an idea. We might lose a man or two, but I have a feeling it will work."

Hogan turned, "You're sure?"

Sharpe grinned. "Aye."

Hogan shrugged dryly, "Well, I got nothing better. What is this grand idea?"

Sharpe told him.

When he was finished, Hogan chuckled, and grew serious, "You're bloody mad, Richard."

Sharpe grinned wolfishly, "That's why I'm so damn useful."

Hogan turned to the Portuguese fugitives. After hearing him, they readily agreed to anything that would get them safely away from the besieged village.

-----

Colonel L'Orris was on the left flank of Brigadier Herron's brigade. They would assault the place in three more hours. He now waited for his General's signal.

Presently, he thought a shadow appeared across his vision.

Then it became clearer. There were some half-dozen women in dresses holding their hands high in the air as a token of surrender.

L'Orris smiled to himself. A good Portuguese girl or two would be a fitting reward for the long wait.

He rode towards the women with their heads slightly downcast. He offered his hand to the nearest one.

He was still urging the horse forward with hand outstretched when the other five pulled out Baker Rifles. One shot from Sims blew brains and blood out through either hole in his skull.

Pendleton, after discarding his dress, grinned at Judson, Harper, Harvey, Tongue, and Sims. He was about to say something, when the French got over their shock, and fired their muskets.

It was useless. The common muskets used by the French, most of the British, and the other European armies were quick to reload, but were terribly inaccurate at 150 yards. The Baker Rifle, on the other hand, was quite accurate at even 400 yards, but was slower to reload. The French never used the rifle, but the British had whole regiments dedicated to using the rifles.

Perkins backed farther out of range to reload. The other five shot and withdrew. The French forward, eager to overwhelm these few.

"Time to go back, so it is." Harper muttered, as they ran backwards. They fired another volley, and ran faster. The French jeered as they advanced.

The first fifteen fell as the first line of Sharpe's two lines fired. Harper and his men joined them, returning the dresses to the Portuguese dressed in nothing but their black shifts.

When they were done putting on their dresses, the riflemen formed into a small square.

And just in time. A troop of cavalry appeared, yelling for their infantry to get out of the way.

"Run! Run!" Sharpe yelled at the unloaded half of his men. They, along with Hogan, ran westward.

Sharpe ran in front of the remainder of his men, levelling his rifle. Behind him, Boris shot, bringing down a sergeant. Hagman stepped up in front of Boris, taking down a lieutenant.

Harris fired, and turned to Sharpe, "We need to get going, sir."

Sharpe wasted no time. With his sergeant's voice, he boomed out, "Back!"

They fled. Behind them, they heard horsemen coming.

Sharpe swore. What a fool he was to let them run! Now they were caught scattered in front of cavalry!

Then there was a crack of rifles firing, and Sharpe turned round. Ten horsemen had been hit, and the others fled.

"Top of the morning sir!" Harper called out, exaggerating his Irish accent. Hogan had ordered the riflemen in his charge to reload, and they now provided cover fire for Sharpe.

One of the cavalrymen still lived. As he struggled up on his knee, Wilkins casually ripped his belly open with the sword bayonet carried by all riflemen. Pendleton, the youngest of the riflemen, gave a slight shudder; Perkins, older than Pendleton by only a few years, turned away. Judson nodded in bitter agreement of Wilkins' action. Wilkins was a true killer. That was why he was so valuable in war.

They marched on, watching for cavalry. Sharpe and Harper were the rearguard.

"Brilliant plan of yours, sir." Harper said after a few minutes.

"Without you and Hogan, we'd all be dead. I shouldn't have let them run in the face of cavalry." Sharpe muttered.

Harper chuckled, "Happens to the best of us sir."

Sharpe grinned, "You put yourself among the best, Pat?"

Harper shrugged, "Just stating the facts, sir." He said, and laughed.

Sharpe laughed as well. He knew how valuable Sergeant Harper was.

Harper gazed out at the rising sun, "The Crapauds won't have given up. He'll be tracking us." The British soldiers had several names for the French. Among them was crapaud, which was French for 'Toad'.

Sharpe grimaced, "Aye. He's going to want my head on a pole after this. He won't want to be humiliated in front of his men."

"Nor would I, sir, if I were a man in his position."

Harper snorted bitterly, "You think this damn army has sense? They'll never make Generals out of men from the ranks." Harper may be a soldier in the British army, but in truth, he hated most Englishmen. Had he not been starving back in Donegal, Ireland, he would never have joined the ranks.

"Any injured?" Sharpe asked.

"None, sir. Quite a bloodless escape."

By the time of sunrise, the riflemen had seen no sign of Herron. They had also found a marsh with a dry island in the middle. Sharpe ordered that would be where they would catch some lost sleep.

Hogan approached him. "Richard, I'll go get reinforcements to get you out of here. Make sure you avoid Herron."

Sharpe nodded. Hogan was no coward; he would never leave Sharpe and the men just for his own safety. He would have the power to summon men to assist Sharpe and his men out of the wilderness.

Hogan looked ashamed, though, "I'm sorry, Richard."

Sharpe shrugged, "Don't be, sir." Hogan smiled at the 'sir'. Then, he mounted up, and went off with the five Portuguese women on stolen horses from the previous night.

Sharpe watched the six horses and their riders head off into the distance. He hoped that Hogan would return fast. Their escape had been a miracle. Herron had maybe 3000 men in his brigade. Sharpe had thirty riflemen to oppose them. Despite the fact that they were good, victory would go to the French Brigadier.

But if they would claim victory, Sharpe would not live to see it.

The French would have to kill them over Sharpe's dead body.

They didn't stay in the same place too long. Sharpe marched them double-time, allowed them rest for fifteen minutes, and got them back on their feet. He knew it was hard, but he would not even chance a match with a force more than a hundred times their number.

Harper marched alongside Sharpe in front, both of them barking out occasionally at one of the youngsters like Perkins, or at a whiner like Tarrant.

After young Pendleton was yelled at for the second time, Wilkins, who was in the centre with Hagman and Boris, called out, "Mister Sharpe! I do believe that Pendleton and Perkins tried to _escape_ their mothers, not find them in the army!" This, although untrue, raised a multitude of jeers, laughter, and guffaws.

Harper raised an eyebrow, "Well, _mister _Wilkins. You're not being responsible there, and you should be. You did of course, father them both, so you did!" That raised even more laughter, Wilkins laughing the hardest of all.

Sharpe called out, "Sanders! Give us a tune!" They were a tight-knit group, even in war. A band of brothers in Portugal.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

By the time the sun sank on the fourth day, the riflemen had reached a steep hill. It was all rock on the north side, and a steep slope on the south. The grassy slope was dotted with large trees, bushes, and rocks. On top there was an old fort made of stone. It looked to be in good shape, but for a few spots in the wall. Harris the reader and Jenkins the Welshman took a scout around, and confirmed Sharpe's guess; it had not been inhabited recently.

Sanders and Perkins were put on watch, and the rest took a welcome break from a hard day of marching.

Sharpe and Harper were the second watch. They kept their eyes fixed on the wide countryside shrouded in darkness.

Then something flew over their heads, hooting loudly. Sharpe cursed, "What the hell was that?!"

Harper smiled, "Tawny owl, sir." He had a fascination with birds.

Sharpe shook his head, "Did you see any French during our march?"

Harper chuckled, "The way we were marching, sir, I doubt that their cavalry could find us."

Sharpe nodded. Then he tensed up. Beside him Harper cocked his rifle. For there was a multitude of forms walking towards the hill.

Sharpe called out, "Rifles! To me!"

They came out struggling to knock the sleep from their legs. The people below were struggling up the hill.

The rifles fired in the direction of the figures, and the crack of the rifles erupted. The figures yelled in shock and returned fire. Sharpe heard the crack of rifles being returned. That was odd. The French didn't use rifles.

Realization hit him like a bullet. "Cease fire! Rifles! Stop!" fire from both sides slackened. Torches were lit, and red coats were visible. There were also some Portuguese that were armed with rifles.

A man on horseback rode up, face screwed in fury.

And Sharpe could have cursed in regret.

It was Major Hartford.

And based on the look on his face, Hartford wasn't happy either to see Sharpe.

"Precisely what, Lieutenant Sharpe, did you think you were doing firing at my men?"

Knowing it was time to swallow his pride, Sharpe shrugged, "Couldn't see who it was, sir. Sorry for any casualties, sir."

Hartford curled his lip in a sneer, "Thankfully, there are no casualties. It seems your riflemen don't know how to shoot."

Sharpe bit back the anger that was rising in him.

Captain Lewis marched up and smiled cheerfully at Sharpe, "Lieutenant sir! A pleasure to see you again."

Hartford looked scathingly at Lewis, whose smile immediately faded. A youngster, Sharpe thought once again, who was easy for a man like Hartford to command and bully.

Hartford turned back to Sharpe, "Hogan requested I find you. He told me you had trouble." He sounded scornful.

"We're being chased by that Brigadier we mentioned before. He has about three thousand with him."

Hartford raised an eyebrow, "A full Brigadier? Chasing _you_?!"

Sharpe nodded, "Killed some of his men. He's sworn revenge and he's duty-bound to drive out any enemies in this area. We're the only enemy, apparently."

Hartford shook his head, "Once again that story? You must have made a mistake; a full brigade has better things to do than to chase a lieutenant around the countryside."

Sharpe smiled, "Not quite, sir. It just takes a brigade of Frenchmen to destroy a handful of riflemen."

Hartford's lip curled in anger at being outwitted by Sharpe.

Captain MacGall, an older, more serious man than Lewis, spoke up, "What's happening then?"

Lewis chimed in "Shall I bring the men up here, sir?"

Hartford looked at the captain, "I would prefer that the men took shifts on the bottom of the hill."

Lewis looked dreadfully embarrassed, and very nervous, "Well, sir, with all due respect, Major, sir, I was asking Mister Sharpe."

Sharpe straightened in surprise. Hartford turned beet-red. A captain asking a lieutenant for advice was one thing, but for the captain to call the lieutenant _sir!_ Unthinkable!

Sharpe shrugged, "The fort's a much safer spot to be in. I'd estimate there's room for three hundred men and a week's supply for each man. We'd also have the high ground, shelter, and secure fort."

Hartford spat in rage. He saw the sense in this, but couldn't stand that Sharpe had thought it up. He turned his horse round, bellowing orders to bring everything into the fort. Sharpe noted that there was an unusual amount of ammunition being carried along with the 22nd. They must have stocked up before arriving here.

Sharpe turned back to Captain Lewis, "Why did you ask for my opinion?"

Lewis gave a grin that made him look drunk, "You know more about soldiering and killing than I ever will, sir. Besides, you were here first. You'd know if that fort could hold us all."

Sharpe was awed by this man's blatant honesty towards how he felt about things.

The next day, provisions were piling in the far corner of the fort, and a hundred and sixty-seven soldiers garrisoned the fort.

Madeira was among the men, and was pleased to see Sharpe again. He introduced Sharpe to the other Portuguese. They were good for soldiering; tough, fit, and all had good accuracy with the rifles they carried. These were the Portuguese and the Spanish who fought the guerrilla war that so harassed the French in Spain and Portugal.

Madeira and the other Portuguese immediately, he fell in with those former farm hands and street fighters, such as Judson and Wilkins. They had met them already, as well as a number of redcoats. A reunion was made between the two units from that Portuguese town.

Sharpe thought the redcoats were a mixed lot. Some were complainers; others were valuable, like the older Scots Captain, tough as a boulder, with the appearance of a man who had worked hard his whole life.

"Andrew MacGall." He had said the first time Sharpe met him. Sharpe had tried to think of a compliment to say, but he had never heard of the 22nd's history. The Scotsman grinned, "Don't waste your time thinking. It's fine."

Sharpe shrugged awkwardly. MacGall seemed like a very capable man who knew how to lead men. Sharpe recognized good leaders from bad ones easily.

MacGall looked at him curiously, "Were you at Gawilghur?"

Sharpe nodded, "I was there." He had been at the scene of the great fortress in India, where Arthur Wellesley had won the day with Indian sepoys and Scottish Highlanders.

MacGall smiled, "Aye, so was my brother. He's talked of nothing else since."

Sharpe also talked to Lewis. He had been a cloth merchant's son, but had been too much of a drunkard and womanizer to be any use. So his father paid for the rank of captain, and Lewis went to Portugal.

The fort was completely isolated, and the troops didn't see anyone for the next few days. The Portuguese would take the swiftest horses and would ride out to see what was happening, but never returned with much news except that Herron was eliminating guerrilla activity. Sharpe knew that Herron would turn back to them once the guerrillas were eliminated, and so he waited anxiously over the days. Soon a week was by, and then the second week was nearly through, and Sharpe was thankful that the guerrillas were being so bothersome.

But eventually Herron would return, and when he did, Sharpe knew that a divided force would be no match for the Brigadier.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Sharpe felt that this place, except for Hartford, was perfect for him. He liked independence, and freedom from all the pompous bastards who could afford to be majors, colonels, and the like.

One day, he was sipping water from a canteen and enjoying the view, when Major Hartford walked up. He looked angry, and had good reason to be. As the days passed, Sharpe became more and more influential. The men followed his advice, joked with him, and respected him. Hartford had fought back, punishing riflemen for little things, but he wanted to break Sharpe now.

Hartford stood in front of him. He was normally shorter than Sharpe, but now he towered over his enemy.

"I want a word with you, Sharpe." He said in a low tone. Sharpe only spat out water and looked up at him. Hartford continued, "I am a Major._ I _am the rightful man in command here. You, Sharpe, are a mere lieutenant, filth from the gutter, playing at being an officer."

Sharpe's grip on the canteen threatened to break it, but that was the only indication that he had heard the insults. Hartford turned, and saw that some riflemen and Portuguese were watching.

Hartford turned back to Sharpe, "Did you hear me?"

Sharpe nodded, "Yes I did, sir. Sorry sir."

Hartford looked at him with triumphant satisfaction, "Why would they ever make you into an officer? You are nothing but a simple brute with an officer's sash." He sneered, and turned to leave.

Sharpe called out, "Bastard!"

Hartford froze. He was being challenged. He could see the men watching edge closer.

He turned, a reproof ready, than started at the murderous look in Sharpe's scarred face.

Sharpe stood, never looking away from Hartford, "I don't give a dead maggot about your bloody rank. You will never command me or my riflemen.' He knew about Hartford and his punishing hand. 'You can barely lead your own men! I've seen wolf puppies that make better officers!' These accusations were empty, as Sharpe had never seen him in battle, but he was too angry to think straight, 'If you're trying to provoke a duel with your insulting, then you must have a death wish, because I'll bloody murder you! Knives, swords, pistols, I don't care! You'll die, you _bugger_!" with the last word, he hit Hartford in the face.

Hartford rubbed the spot where Sharpe's fist hit his face. He looked ready to pull out the pistol that he always carried, but thought of a better way to fight back.

"You're finished, Sharpe. No one strikes an officer and gets away with it." He sneered, spat out a bloody tooth, and walked away.

As angry as he was at Hartford, Sharpe was suddenly worried. Hartford would indeed be able to put Sharpe in shackles, or issue a flogging. He had once been flogged in India, and he still had the scars on his back. He didn't relish the thought of it again.

"The man's a bastard. I wouldn't worry about it, sir." Harper tried to help, but he could not deny the fact that Sharpe was in big trouble if someone took Hartford seriously. And General Craddock probably would.

But he had to put it out of his mind for now. Herron could come any moment. Sharpe led scouting and forage expeditions every day.

On the third day after Hartford arrived, Sharpe led a band of chosen riflemen, Portuguese, and men from the 22nd. MacGall and Madeira were among them.

The forage had brought in several canteens of fresh water, and a number of vegetables that may or may not have been edible. Madeira and the Portuguese gave their word on it, so they were put in bags to be taken back to the fort.

Perkins, who was on watch, suddenly gave a call of warning. Just after the call, shots filled the air. Carbines, a type of cavalry guns. Cavalry scouts.

Herron had sent a patrol ahead to find Sharpe and the riflemen, not knowing that they had been reinforced by men from the 22nd regiment.

Sharpe roared an order to get together. Soon, all twenty-three of them were assembled.

A bullet whipped by to hit a tree, just a hand's length away from Wilkins, who jumped in shock. Madeira aimed carefully, and fired. A curse sounded, and a man came into view, clutching a bleeding arm. One close-range musket shot from MacGall finished him off, though. Hagman smiled at Madeira, aimed at another area in the bushes, and fired. A man with a bullet in his skull slumped into view.

"Sorry, Madeira, Hagman is the best shot in this damned army!" Harris called out. Everyone chuckled. Hagman just grinned as he reloaded his rifle.

Sharpe motioned to Tom Gladstone. He had a good eye, and Sharpe told him to see if there were no others.

"Gladstone! Any more out there?" Sharpe called out.

Gladstone craned his eyes, and responded, "None that I can see, sir."

It was the last thing he ever said. A well-aimed bullet took him twixt the eyes.

Wilkins whistled partly in surprise, partly in respect for a Frenchman's musket being so accurate. Perkins swore in astonishment, swearing again as the other 22nd fired, splattering more French blood on Portuguese soil.

Sharpe looked at them. All looked hardened in the face. Many stared accusingly at him. Even MacGall looked bitter, but he didn't seem to blame Sharpe. He was carrying Gladstone's body to a small clearing for burial.

Sharpe cleared his throat, "Bury Gladstone, then we go."

None moved. The former friend of Gladstone snarled, "You sent him; one of ours, and why? Because Hartford reprimanded some of your lads?"

Sharpe knew someone would speak out. He felt anger rise inside him. Damn it, it wasn't his fault! "Shut up, and bury him if you want to!"

Sharpe's riflemen glanced around, cautious of the sudden split in opinion of Sharpe. Wilkins put a hand on his knife, but apart from that, nobody made a move at all.

The man with the acne on his forehead looked around angrily, hoping for more support against Sharpe. Hagman and Cooper glared at him in return, and the rest of the Rifles made a move to group together. MacGall laid the body of Gladstone down on the ground.

Again, no one moved. Then, MacGall stepped forward to stand alongside Sharpe, which ended the standoff. The redcoats buried their friend together.

Everyone, except the scrawny man with an acne mark on his forehead.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"Luther Byrne. That's his name." MacGall muttered as they marched back to the fort. 'An enemy,' Sharpe thought. God damn it, he had a lot of those.

Byrne, at the moment, was muttering to the men nearest to him.

"He'll be influencing the men, sir." Hagman commented. Beside him, Tongue agreed. Byrne was trouble.

"I'll try to still them," MacGall said, and went forward, quickening his pace.

After a harsh order from MacGall, the men were silent as they marched.

Sharpe called him back, "If you please, sir, to give us a tune. It's been a while since I heard some pipes."

He had never thought of combining MacGall's pipes, Hagman's flute, and Sanders' vocals. But it made a beautiful music, just like in the Portuguese town. It made the atmosphere a happy one, and the thoughts of Byrne temporarily shifted to the back of Sharpe's mind.

When they got back to the fort, the troubles returned. Byrne quietly hinted at Hartford of the events. He was furious, reprimanding Sharpe in front of the men. Sharpe took it; he was in enough trouble as it was.

"When this is over, you will be on trial. Mark my words, Sharpe; you won't even be wearing a private's uniform after this! You will be sent back to England!"

"Sir! Permission to speak!" Sharpe felt angry, but knew army responses were in order.

Hartford looked scornfully at Sharpe, "Denied. You are in no state to make a defence in this…"

"Herron!" Sharpe bellowed desperately. This crowd was split in its favour of either man. He had to gain the upper hand.

Hartford stared at the war-hardened rifleman, "Herron?"

"Brigadier Herron is coming, and the last thing we need is a divided force!" Sharpe felt sure that it wouldn't work, but he knew he must try.

Hartford paused, then looked contemptuous, "Honestly, Sharpe. You surely don't believe your own lies, do you?"

Sharpe was stunned. He hadn't expected this.

Hartford laughed, "A full brigade has better things to do than chase you! I believe he is an invention devised by you and Hogan to ruin me! Hah! You and Hogan will not get away with it!"

Sharpe fumed. Rage told him to draw his sword and fillet this bastard. Sense, however, won the battle, and he walked away, feeling the redcoats' stare of amusement.

Later, he sat down with his riflemen. The past day had seemed to bring the men of the 22nd closer to their major. Sharpe's humiliation had drained them of respect towards him, coupled with the fact that he had seemingly favoured his own troops in danger. Hartford sensed the change, and he now walked with a spring in his step.

Only Lewis, MacGall and about twenty of his men supported Sharpe. They, along with the riflemen and the Portuguese, were still outnumbered by Hartford's supporters.

"We're in a tight spot, sir." Harper commented.

"We should go, sir. Leave these whoresons to that French bastard." Rifleman Roan said mutinously.

"No," Sharpe sighed. He knew that it could only get worse if he ran. They'd be branded deserters and would be hunted by the British. On top of that, Herron was coming. The French would catch him and take the riflemen prisoner, or kill them.

Sharpe was angry with himself. Everyone was quiet with his own thoughts for the moment. Finally, Wilkins uttered a growl of warning.

Captain Terry Lewis stood there, an unsure look on his face. Sharpe looked at him, "Sir?"

Lewis shook his head, embarrassed, "Please don't call me that, Sharpe. I am to summon you to Hartford."

Sharpe, without question, got up and followed Lewis.

Hartford was sitting by a fire. He did not look at Sharpe. Only until dismissing Lewis did he look at the rifleman.

He looked angry, "Private Byrne told you are picking my men for dangerous missions."

"He lies." Sharpe retorted, furious.

Hartford raised his eyebrow, "You don't like him, do you? Are you planning to get him killed tomorrow?"

Sharpe swore for an answer.

Hartford chose to ignore that, "I'm watching you, Sharpe."

Sharpe left without another word.

Harper snorted when hearing the story, "Bastard. How much more can he do?"

"Nothing much." Madeira, being taught English by the riflemen, understood most conversations.

Sharpe wished he had never met Hartford. That bastard was signing Sharpe's death wish. He had no hope.

Sharpe knew it would erupt in fights, and that night, Sergeant Harper caught a group of men attacking Harris and three of his friends that were with Sharpe.

No one was seriously hurt, but Sharpe knew these would happen again; he also had a funny feeling that Hartford was doing nothing to quell it.

One day, he and MacGall were standing guard for the night, watching for any signs of the enemy. They were almost obsessed with seeing any sign, for Major Hartford had publicly announced that the 22nd was heading out in two days.

Sharpe looked out into the darkness, "Last I heard, he'd quelled the uprisings." He was talking about Herron.

MacGall nodded, "Aye. He'd be pretty pleased to have more prized quarry though. A Major, two captains, and a handful of riflemen?" The compliment was a small one, but a compliment nonetheless.

Sharpe sighed, "If Hartford was so bloody sure that Herron is not here, then why has he stayed here so long?"

MacGall smiled, "He's hiding."

Sharpe turned. He thought of what Captain Lewis had begun to tell him before in the town.

MacGall glanced around before lowering his voice, "Lewis and I know a bit about what's happened with Hartford. Apparently he was newly married a year ago, and the wife began having an affair early on in the marriage. Later said it was because of Hartford, but that means little. It was discovered after a month or so, and then everyone expected Hartford to challenge the man to a duel. Trouble for Hartford was that it was a well-known lieutenant colonel that had fought with Wellesley against Junot."

Sharpe nodded. Wellesley had been the right general to fight here instead of Portugal.

MacGall continued, "Anyway, Hartford lost much face, and the humiliation drove him to buy his Majority and get him to Portugal. Craddock offered to make sure the colonel didn't come back to fight, as long as Hartford made it worth his while. That's why he's trying to hide the damage from the Horse Guards in London. He's indebted to Craddock, and Craddock's using that debt to secure his own position."

Sharpe smiled at the story he'd heard, but he also knew that if Herron attacked, it would paradoxically help Sharpe's position. Hartford would see for himself that Herron was here.

The next day, Sharpe and all of his supporters scouted, far more carefully now. Then they froze, listening to the rumble of boots that had suddenly erupted through the forest.

Hagman saw them first. He motioned for the others.

"God save Ireland!" Harper chuckled.

More than three thousand French soldiers were marching.

Led by a Frenchman sworn by duty and vengeance to kill Sharpe.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Sharpe had an idea. Motioning for the riflemen and Portuguese to move back, he led the redcoats to the right. It was a lucky thing that these men were from the Light Company. There were ten companies going from Grenadier Company, Number Two Company, Number Three, Number Four, and up to Number Ten, which was the Light Company, that didn't stand in line with the others, but were sent out to match the French skirmishers.

"Hagman! Kindly do Portugal a favour and kill Herron!" he muttered to the old poacher beside.

Hagman chuckled, "Too far, sir. But I'll go for that officer there."

He was referring to a mounted captain marching among the ranks. Hagman, with his deadly accuracy, took the man through the neck.

At once, Madeira, Cresacre, and twelve others fired. The French were caught by surprise. A major called for voltigeurs, the skirmishers of the French army.

"Aim properly you bastards!" Harper called.

Voltigeurs came running up, but became the new target of Sharpe's skirmishers.

A few ran off the path into the forest to find targets, but many of them fell to rifle fire. Most quivered with the rest.

Herron bellowed at his men to form, but the bullets cracked throughout the ranks. One man tried to draw breath to scream, but couldn't, as a bullet had gone through his windpipe. A drummer boy was weeping from a wound in his stomach.

"Bastards!' Herron edged his horse in front of his men, waving his sword at the trees, 'Bastards!"

"Don't shoot him!' Sharpe called. Then, raising his voice, he called to Herron, "Remember me, you bugger? I told you the riflemen were the bloody elite."

Herron visibly shook with rage as he turned to a captain of the skirmishers, "Bonnaire, I want your men in there now!" Bonnaire turned to organize his men. Then, with astonishment, he watched as Herron dismounted and organized a charge he would lead.

The group of two hundred volunteers entered the forest, while the rest hung back, shooting at random as a sort of help.

Sharpe's men split up their fire. Half fired at the voltigeurs, others fired at the men on the path.

Herron waved his sword at impending branches, daring the English bastards to kill him. No one did. They admired his courage, and instead, aimed for the French skirmishers.

Captain Bonnaire, along with a group of fourteen, cut away from Herron and ambushed two Portuguese. They fought, but were swarmed by the vengeful French. They despised the English, but hated the Spanish and Portuguese guerrillas for making the invasions of both countries a painful experience. France was a powerful nation now that Napoleon Bonaparte was Emperor. His experience as a General would have been helpful in the Peninsula now.

One was taken alive. He was a big man, and spat at the French who held him down with their bayonets.

Bonnaire took a bayonet, staring coldly at the man, "Are you going to surrender?"

The words that came out of the man's mouth could only have come from a true patriot, "Death before dishonour. Go to hell, you French pig."

Bonnaire snarled, and stabbed him through the chest. The man did not break his gaze, and gave a huge bellow in Portuguese, "God bless Portugal!"

The deaths of the two Portuguese invoked a bitter volley of hard bullets. To Bonnaire, it seemed that his companions disappeared in a mixture of smoke and blood. Screams erupted as a motley group of redcoats, Portuguese, and riflemen charged the remaining five. Herron screamed out for Bonnaire, calling him a mewling if he did not come to rally the men.

Bonnaire ran. He was filled with terror of these English and Portuguese fighters. He tripped over a root and fell forward.

"Get up." A quiet, menacing voice entered his ears. Scrambling up, the Frenchman stared into the vengeful face of Adam Wilkins. Anger and hunger for revenge gave his scarred face the look of a savage wolf eyeing a rabbit.

Bonnaire dropped his bayonet, as a token of surrender. Wilkins drew his own.

"I surrender!" Bonnaire pleaded. Wilkins, who often heard these French words, gave a demon-like smile. That smile was a death knell.

Wilkins took a step forward, "The man you killed,' he spoke in the little French that Rifleman Tongue had taught him, 'was a man named Alexandre Madeira. He was not a good friend of mine, but I would have hoped he died a better death than what you gave him."

Bonnaire looked around desperately. Surely he was alone with this sub-human.

He tried to reason with Wilkins, "I offered him the choice of surrender! He was a common man, a guerrilla!"

Wilkins' grin didn't falter, "He was more of a man than you ever will be."

Bonnaire shivered as he stared into the pitiless eyes of the rifleman.

The evil smile mutated into a savage, beast-like snarl, and Wilkins stepped forward, brandishing his bayonet.

Nobody would ever see Bonnaire again, and his screams were lost in the combat that was slowly dying out by itself. The fight was just a bloody standstill, neither side able to win.

Harper turned to Sharpe. The rifleman gave a nod. It was over.

Sharpe went to Herron. The Frenchman raised his blade, prompting Hagman, Tongue, and Cooper to aim for his head.

Sharpe waved away the long barrels. He jerked his head in the direction of the path, where the French waited anxiously for the fate of their brave Brigadier.

Herron gave a smile that rivaled even Wilkins', "By the glory of Bonaparte and France, Sharpe! By the glory of Bonaparte and France, I will kill you. You will die horribly, and your men, too."

Wilkins sidled up, a look of supreme satisfaction in his attitude.

Sharpe gave Herron a villainous stare, "It's time for you to go."

The big man laughed, "Oh I will go now, but in no time, you'll be facing more than three thousand men. And I lead them!' he gave a smirk, 'at least the English can put that honour on your gravestone." With that, he left.

Big words, Sharpe thought. This man was dead-set on killing him.

"Rifles! Move out." They all left, but not before they buried Madeira and the other man, whom Sharpe found out was Madeira's brother.

They went back to the fort without a word to Hartford.

"Let the bugger find out for himself." Sharpe said venomously to Harper.

Harper gave a yawn, "Aye, and what then?"

Sharpe looked to the horizon, "We'll give him the chance to be the brave bloody hero he always wanted to be."

Hartford hounded the footsteps of Sharpe and his supporters. Madeira's death did not anger him as Gladstone's had, though.

Sharpe missed Madeira. However, the Portuguese were no less loyal to Sharpe. They saw what a good soldier he was, and respected him.

But Herron was coming, Hartford was writing orders for his arrest, still saying that they were lying, and the garrison was more divided than ever.

"What would Hogan think?" Sharpe thought out loud.

Harper chuckled.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Sharpe was woken by Rifleman Harris. Hagman, Tongue, and Wilkins also accompanied the red-haired, former teacher.

Sharpe rubbed his left eye, "What is it?"

Harris, Hagman, Tongue, and Wilkins were looking grim. Tongue answered for all four of them, "Hartford's about to hang some of our lads."

Sharpe wasted no time in strapping on his sword-belt and putting on his old, worn rifleman's jacket.

When he got there, Hartford was reading the charges. Harper and MacGall were standing to the side with the rest as all stared at the eight riflemen.

Will Boris, Jenkins, Williamson, Tarrant, Judson, Sanders, Pendleton, and Matthew Dodd were standing in front of a firing squad, hands bound and their green jackets discarded in a pile.

Hartford was speaking in a loud voice. These eight riflemen of the 95th Rifles, he said, were caught fighting men of the 22nd Regiment in His Majesty's army. The riflemen, swears each and every man of the 22nd involved, started the fight.

"That bastard was involved, sir." Harper pointed to Luther Byrne, who looked smug and triumphant.

Sharpe stepped forward. Sanders and Boris were very valuable, and as much as he disliked Williamson and Tarrant, they were all his men, and he would not stand by and watch them killed for such an absurd reason.

"Ah, Sharpe. So glad you came." Hartford looked quite happy. Beside him, Captain Lewis was looking resentfully at his Major.

"Let them go, Hartford." Sharpe could barely stop himself from hitting him.

Hartford smirked, "You have no say in this, Lieutenant Sharpe."

"But I do have my sword. And if you don't release those men, I'll bloody fillet you!" Sharpe drew his sword.

Hartford went pale at the sight of the furious rifleman armed with a huge sword that shone in the morning sun. He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly, a whistling sound grew louder and louder.

"Look out!" Harper, who had cocked his rifle in case of a fight, bellowed as the riflemen dived away.

A cannonball thudded into the ground where Hagman and Tongue had been standing.

Sharpe swore, and looked over the fort wall.

Herron, with 3600 French in his brigade, stood at the foot of the hill the fort was on, and stood by as two howitzers were firing.

Sharpe gazed at the howitzers. It could have been much worse, but those cannons could still inflict damage.

"God save Ireland, but I'll be damned if I see a way that we'll get out of this easy."

Sharpe looked at Hartford, who was stunned at the sight of the French.

Sharpe grimaced, "Well, Hartford, here's your chance to be that man in complete command." He muttered so only Harper could hear.

Hartford stammered, "S-Sharpe! You knew…you were right…"

Lewis looked to where the last shell had landed, "Sir! Three men dead."

Hartford gave a shriek as another explosion sounded.

Sharpe gathered his rifles. Sanders and the rest had been untied, and now gripped their weapons as they stared at the forces of General Bayard Herron.

Hartford struggled to sound dignified, "Captain! Prepare to put every man on the walls to fire down at the French!"

Lewis looked flabbergasted, "But sir, only the rifles would be in range!"

Hartford brought his face close to the Captain, "How dare you defy my orders! Fire when they advance damn you!" He screamed the last sentence hysterically.

Sharpe groaned.

"Sergeant Harper! Gather the skirmishers. We're heading down there." Sharpe spoke. It was a risk he had to take. They would have a considerable amount of cover, but the French could overwhelm them quickly.

Sharpe and his men crept behind trees, shrubs, and stones under the cover of smoke from the shells.

Hagman and Perkins were by Sharpe and Harper on the far end of the slope. Sanders, MacGall, and Tongue on the other end of the ridge. Everyone else was arrayed in between them.

Sharpe aimed his rifle, as did Perkins. Riflemen worked in pairs; one fired as the other moved and reloaded.

Herron watched the first men fall, and ordered voltigeurs forward.

They returned fire, some finding a mark. A Portuguese was hit in the leg, cursed, and immediately reloaded his rifle. A man beside MacGall began laughing, but was cut short from the bullet in his mouth.

"Bastards!' Will Boris, with rage flaming his eyes, shot at a gaudily dressed lieutenant, 'Bastards!"

Sharpe ducked as a French bullet hit the branch right above. Harper, screaming in Gaelic, aimed and killed the offending Voltigeur.

Herron, apparently satisfied, began to organize his men into a proper siege.

Isaiah Tongue crawled up to Sharpe, "Pendleton's hit, sir."

"Jesus!' Sharpe cursed. Pendleton, the baby of the riflemen, was always in the thick of the fighting.

Tongue sensed what Sharpe was thinking, "He's not dead, sir. It's only a flesh wound, but he'll need it bandaged."

Sharpe nodded, "I'll take him up, and any other wounded."

Five men limped up to the fort with Sharpe.

He returned to see the men who had sided with Hartford looking very sullen. Captain Terry Lewis ran up to the tall rifleman. "What is it?"

Sharpe answered, "I've got five wounded here. Do you have medical supplies?"

Lewis shrugged, "A bit, but it's not the best."

Sharpe wasted no time, "That's fine. Treat these men for me."

Lewis did not move, "He's dead, sir."

Sharpe stared, "Who?"

"Hartford."

"Bloody hell!' Sharpe said it not in regret, but in astonishment. He was safe. There would be no trials, no demotion, no execution. All because of Hartford's death.

Sharpe stared at the men, "And what the hell are you all doing here when there are enemies to fight?

None moved. Then Luther Byrne gave a look of anger, "You don't lead us. You're just a jumped-up bastard from the ranks."

Sharpe wasted no time for hesitation. He walked up to Byrne and kicked him between the legs. Byrne gasped, bent double, and received an elbow into his side. He went down, hot tears of pain squeezing out of his closed eyes.

Sharpe stared at the men, "Anyone else? I'm obliged."

But no one else was as willing as Sharpe. They picked up their muskets and stepped forward. Lewis smiled, and saluted, "Any orders, sir?"

Sharpe delivered the wounded in good hands, and led the reinforcements out.

The riflemen and the Portuguese were silent towards the men. However, MacGall and the redcoats already out started to grin.

The fighting was fierce. Most of the men of the 22nd, unused to fighting like the light company, were learning fast. Herron had trained his men well, and they shot almost as fast as the British. The British were the only nation to train with real powder and shot, and could fire up to five rounds a minute.

Herron turned to a major, "Send the men up. I will lead them."

The French organized into their classic battle formation, the _pas de charge_. Columns containing vast amounts of men, driven by drums and their own battle cry.

They now followed their General up the slope, past the wounded at the back, and past the few Voltigeurs trying not to get themselves in the fight.

The French gave a roar, "Vive l'Empereur! Vive l'Empereur!"

Harper chuckled, "The old trousers." He laughed, repeating the British nickname for this formation.

Sharpe gave a shudder as the drums and battle cries filled the air again. Even for him, the sound was frightening. This was what had cowed the other European countries into submission.

Sharpe quickly organized the men of the 22nd into a line. The British had a unique strategy too; they fought in not three, but two lines. This gave them the upper hand on the battlefield. As frightening as the column could seem, only the front two ranks could fire. Thus, the lines always outgunned them.

Sharpe left the lines to Lewis, who had a surprisingly loud voice.

"Present!"

The men in the first rank aimed their muskets.

"Fire!"

A loud volley erupted, killing many in the first ranks of the column.

Sharpe looked at the skirmishers. They, outnumbered by the voltigeurs, were moving back, leaving four men dead, all of them redcoats.

Harper, clapping Pendleton on the back, walked up to Sharpe, "We're doing well, but we can't hold on the hilltop."

Suddenly, a scream sounded as a Portuguese fell back, dead. On the left end of the ridge, Rifleman Clyde Roan was dying, a bullet in his stomach. He mumbled in his heavy accent to a bitter-faced Judson. Sharpe came over to get Roan into the fort, but he was already dead. Sharpe swore in his anger. Roan had been a good soldier; calm in the heat of battle. Now he was dead.

"Fire!" Lewis yelled for the fifth time.

The column shook as a volley hit its mass. They were tighter now, each Frenchman trying to stay in the centre of the column. There were too many bodies to move forward.

Herron looked irritated, and grabbed a discarded musket. It was loaded, and Herron aimed it at the riflemen and Portuguese. Seeing their General, some of the voltigeurs stood around their General.

Herron fired, and roared in triumph. Rifleman Cooper fell with Herron's bullet in his shoulder. More bullets followed, and the skirmishers retreated even farther.

Sharpe swore. Time to go. He filled his huge sergeant's lungs with air, "Rifles! Retreat!"

The riflemen and the others retreated into the fort. Lewis ordered the men in line to follow. Herron ran up ahead, yelling at his men to slaughter every British heretic and Portuguese peasant.

It would not be so easy though. Sharpe lined his riflemen and Portuguese on the walls, pouring a deadly accurate volley into the French.

Herron ran up the hill as though there was no fight going on. He stopped at the door and called to his men to break through the door.

"Aye, well they've got a bloody hill to scramble up." Tongue muttered, firing at a man carrying the colours. It was a common thing in battle for many men to fall defending the regiment flags that were the pride of the soldiers who would fight like demons to protect them.

Wilkins laughed, "Send me down Sharpe. I'll show them what happened to their captain!" MacGall and his men snickered.

"Shut your filthy gobs and keep pouring hell into the bastards!" Harper shouted enthusiastically. He had spent many a night fire with the Portuguese and the 22nd Light Company, until he could swear blue and green at them and all they would do is smile or jeer.

Sharpe smiled. The men weren't getting anywhere near the General, who was still being ignored due to admiration of his bravery. Herron knew that if he tried to hack through the door, then Sharpe would eventually order him shot like a dog. Spitting on the foot of the wall, Herron turned back down the hill.

The men cheered, until Harper bellowed for them to shut up.

Sharpe watched his men smile, and knew they were fully aware that this business was far from over.

He went to Lewis. The Captain was waving his sword round in happiness, surrounded by 22nd men. They looked warily at the tough riflemen flanked by the giant Irish sergeant. Lewis, however, beamed at Sharpe.

"Lewis, I must thank you and your men. You all fought very well." Sharpe kept his eyes on Lewis' grateful face, but could sense the pleasure on the men's faces.

He dealt out double the men's regular rations that night, and all were happy. 22nd and rifleman alike were sitting together round little fires.

They had fought together, side by side, and the experience of teamwork put aside their disagreements.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Herron let the two cannons fire day. Ten men from the 22nd died, and another was wounded. Some would recover, but others would have to wait.

Sharpe knew he couldn't wait for long. It was a war of attrition, and he would soon be leading fewer than twenty wounded men. That is, if he lived that long.

Harper made a dive for Sharpe, avoiding another explosion, "Sweet Christ Almighty!"

"He ain't interested in us, Pat." Sharpe snarled.

Hagman and Wilkins crept towards where Sharpe rolled to miss a cannon shot.

Sharpe did not even look at them, still in a foul temper, "Now bloody what?"

Hagman spoke, "We have a few more dead, and Boris got a burn on his leg. He'll be right as rain in an hour. But sir, I have an idea. It's almost sunset, right?"

Sharpe looked up, "What are you saying Dan?"

Harper chuckled, "God save Ireland, but I got a good feeling at what Dan's thinking.

Sharpe was none the wiser. "What are you talking about, lads?"

Adam Wilkins spoke up with a smile on his face, "Me, sir."

Sharpe stared, and then began to laugh. God, why had he never thought it himself? "You got your permission, Adam. Go and give 'em nightmares of hell."

That night, Sharpe and his riflemen crept down the slope. Sharpe wanted the riflemen, because their dark green colour would blend in with the night. Not only that, they were trained to be skirmishers. They would fire some volleys, and thus distract them from the born killer in their camp.

Sharpe had given Wilkins the chance, and he took it with pleasure.

He stayed by a stone, watching the chaos in which he had always loved to strike. Frenchmen were in disarray, running around, trying to make sense from where they were being attacked. However, this confusion was only on the outskirts of the French camp. So if there was going to be any killing from Wilkins, he'd have to do it fast.

One voltigeur ran up to where Wilkins was hiding. As before, Wilkins shoved a rag into the man's mouth, slitting his throat in a shower of spurting blood.

Wilkins dropped the man, "That one's for Clyde Roan, you bastard."

Back in the darkness, Sharpe knelt by Harper as he fired his rifle, "Did Wilkins mention when he'd be back?"

Harper shook his head, "No, but that lad can really cut a man's throat."

Sharpe smirked because there was no other expression to give. Wilkins was a cheerful enough man at the campfires. He amused the men with his habit of oiling his hair every morning so it hung over his forehead in stiff strands. But when he used his knife to kill men, he became someone other than the handsome young man with a faint smile. He wasn't the only one. Most men in the army had been murderers, rapists, and thieves. Sharpe himself was a hard man. He had killed a man before he was thirteen. He had been brought up in a tough orphanage, had run away, and had lived in the rookeries and hovels of London.

Pendleton stared vengefully at the silhouettes of the French, "I hope he kills a hundred of those Frogs."

Harper grinned, "That's it, lad. Use that enthusiasm for the battles, and you'll live."

Wilkins was alive. He had been spotted a few times, but he was well trained at disappearing, while leaving dead Frenchmen in his wake.

Herron saw him once. They had locked eyes, French General and British rifleman. Wilkins snarled a curse on the French General, and Herron responded by aiming a musket at the man. But he had already melted into the shadow.

Wilkins, knowing he had done enough, headed to the fort, carrying a lighted torch taken from the camp.

Christopher Judson saw the signal, and saw it extinguished. Wilkins was in the fort, and the riflemen could go back. He turned to Cresacre and Harris beside him, "Quick, go tell Mister Sharpe that Wilk's at the fort."

Cresacre slipped away. Harris turned to go, flinching from the sudden volley. Firing his rifle in response, he laughed as a man fell, clutching his shoulder. "Well, that bugger won't be the same, eh, Jud?"

Turning, Harris' laughter died, and his eyes widened.

Christopher Judson, with two bullets in his body, was dead.

Harris ducked down out of instinct. He cut off a sob of shock as he stared at the bullet-wounds in Judson's left cheek and chest.

Sharpe, flanked by ten riflemen, came up to Harris, "Wilkins made it?"

Then he saw Judson. Turning to Isaiah Tongue, he spoke in voice that ground like stone, "Get Sergeant Harper and the rest to head back."

Tongue blinked, and went into the darkness.

Sharpe turned to the east. The sun was rising. Red, pink, and orange loomed out of the horizon. A small sliver of the sun crept into view. A few birds were singing, and not two metres away from Judson, a squirrel scampered up a tree. It was a beautiful morning, but it was lost on the riflemen, who had lost another one of their own.

It had hurt to lose Clyde Roan, and Judson was another loss. The riflemen had survived the retreat of Corunna while stranded in the middle of nowhere. They had made it together, barely escaping death. To lose one of those survivors was a cost of war, but it still hurt.

Slowly, they trailed into the fort, Will Boris, Sharpe, and Harper, the three biggest men, carried the now pale Judson into the fort. Sanders began to sing a mournful tune that caused the morning light to seem sad.

They buried Roan and Judson in secret. Sharpe and his men found a place on the hill, which would never be discovered. To ensure that, they rolled a large boulder over the grave. Wilkins, who had not said a word at all since he had seen his friend's corpse, poured the contents of his canteen into the ground before the sealing.

That same afternoon, Sharpe stared balefully at Herron's main encampment. It had been a standoff so far, but if he could, they'd get off this damn hill.

But before doing so, he would show the French how the Portuguese and British fought.

Will Boris the pugilist walked over to Sharpe, "Damn it sir, those buggers will have a lot to answer for when they face us next time."

Sharpe spat, "You bet two shillings on it."

Harper thought about that, "There's one thing wrong with that, sir."

Sharpe turned, "Yes?"

Harper put on a small grin, "I don't have a bloody penny to bet."

Sharpe, despite himself, laughed. Even Boris began to smile.

The next day, Herron decided to launch a full attack. The howitzers poured shot after shot into the fort, which followed up with the _pas de charge. _Herron also stationed a squadron of cavalry to ride down any enemy in line. Sharpe was stuck in the fort. So he stationed the wounded who could shoot, plus twenty others at the door. If the door was taken, Sharpe and the men were doomed.

Sharpe himself was standing with Parry Jenkins and Daniel Hagman on the wall. MacGall was also there, as was Oliver Sanders.

The French marched forward. They absorbed the rifle and musket bullets, because they wanted to win. Their General had shamed them, and they wanted to be able to destroy this upstart garrison. They wanted to show him that they were able to meet the standards he had laid out.

Sharpe yelled to the British and Portuguese under his command, "Slattery! Pick two men and take those French leaning to the side. Tarrant! Fire that damn rifle properly! Captain Lewis! Direct the men down below by the door."

He was everywhere; one minute, he'd shoot his rifle alongside some men, then he'd be encouraging others.

The French stubbornly fired at the men. They would not stop until they destroyed Sharpe here. But Sharpe was holding them back.

But just then the wall crumbled.

It was the cannons that Herron had cunningly put to the side, where they had fired at a part of the wall that was farther away from the fight. It had finally crumbled, amid the cheers of the French.

Sharpe roared in anger. He couldn't stop them in time. They were hard pressed on the wall. The French would be in here in a minute, and then it would be all over.

Lewis was looking worriedly up at Sharpe as the men under his command stared at one another, unsure of what to do.

"We're going to die, aren't we Dan?" Young Pendleton, who grinned in a fight, who took things like all of them, was biting his lip to stop from panicking. Beside him, Daniel Hagman was as grim as death as he aimed for the exuberant French.

In a few moments, they'd be in the fort, and Herron would have finally exacted his revenge.

Suddenly, a bellow called out, and a rifle fired. The French recoiled, with looks of anger, but also fear.

Sharpe looked to see what was going on, and saw a lone man, who had survived the collapse of the wall, reloading and firing a rifle at the French.

Sharpe remembered a night of fear, fire, and a lone demon stalking the French with a bloody knife.

It was Adam Wilkins.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Wilkins swore at the French as he ducked from bullets behind a fallen masonry, aiming his rifle and firing at them. The French could see victory sliding away from them as a group of men spurred to the aid of the murderous rifleman. With a yell of hatred, they spurred towards Wilkins, now standing as he brought down a runner in front.

"Adam!' Sharpe bellowed, 'Adam!"

Wilkins, murderer, villain, and rifleman, turned for a second, gave his demon-like smile, and drew his knife. Other riflemen, and Portuguese too, called for him to run.

And run he did.

Wilkins snarled as he leaped onto the nearest two, slicing and stabbing at their eyes and faces. Even as he turned to kill another, a dozen bayonets stabbed into his chest. Adam Wilkins was dead before he hit the ground. The French cheered as they jabbed at another hated rifleman.

And then a bellow erupted from two giants woken up.

Patrick Harper, his eyes shining with battle-light, and the blood of a thousand Irish warriors pumping through him, charged to kill the French. He screamed battle cries in Gaelic, the ancient language of his beloved Ireland. And beside him came Richard Sharpe, in his own battle-fury, coming to exact revenge.

None could have stood against them. There was no way the French could have stood. But stand they did for a minute longer, because they had promised their General that they would give him this fort.

Behind the two berserkers, however, came more furious soldiers. Will Boris, using the brass knuckles he had worn as a pugilist, broke jaws and noses alike. Daniel Hagman and five Portuguese from the wall fired a small but deadly volley into the mass of Frenchmen. Tongue and Harris, the two educated men, fired close range. MacGall, cursing in Scots, led the 22nd Light Company.

The French broke. Their enemies fought with a determination and rage they did not possess. Running back down the hill, they fled from the jeering enemy who had beaten them once again.

Sharpe knelt beside Wilkins. There were dozens of puncture wounds in his chest, and his eyes were glazed over in death.

"You stupid bugger.' Sharpe cursed in his tears of grief, 'you goddamn idiot."

Harper and the others gathered round the corpse of a man who had been born a tramp, lived a killer, and died a hero.

Wilkins had once drunkenly stated he'd rather be burned than buried. Thus, they fulfilled his wishes that night. He and ten others were burned, but Wilkins had been the only casualty of Sharpe's riflemen from that fight.

Sharpe sat with Harper with their backs to the glowing embers.

Harper turned to Sharpe, "Sir, I must congratulate you. You're a bastard of a fighter. I've said it before, and I'll say it again now."

Sharpe smiled, "You're one to talk."

Harper grinned, "Aye, it's true. I would have beaten you to the ground that time last winter. But you cheated."

Sharpe laughed out loud, "Could I have beaten you if I hadn't?"

They were silent for a moment.

Harper looked up, "Damn pity about Wilkins. He was a useful bugger, he was."

Sharpe nodded in agreement. There was nothing to say.

Lewis came up, juggling three glasses of wine in two hands, "Sir! A drink to celebrate our victory."

Sharpe accepted the offer, as did Harper.

The men were cheerful that night, and toasted that the casualties of today would have a horde of Frenchmen to carve the way for them.

MacGall ordered the Light Company to stand guard for the night. Everyone else went to bed.

Sharpe and Harper stayed awake. They stood on the north wall, looking at the two hundred or so French cavalry that had seen almost no action for the last days. Sharpe had seen the disadvantage in the rocky slope. There was no cover, and anybody moving around would doubtless send some loose rocks down the hill.

Harper looked at the men at the bottom. "They must think we'd never dare hit them from this side."

Sharpe grimaced. "Who would, Pat? Herron's smart enough to know I'm not going to try to escape on this shit-heap."

Harper scowled at the thought, "Aye, right you are. We couldn't think of trying to escape this way. We'd make too much noise."

Sharpe was about to agree, and then suddenly, an idea hit him. It came so quickly, so spontaneously, that he could barely speak. Goddamn it! How could he never have thought of it? "Harps!"

Harper looked over at the lieutenant, "Sir!"

Sharpe felt incredibly excited as he talked, "You just said that we'd make too much noise going down this slope?"

"Aye. But what does that explain?"

"If we tried to escape on this side, we'd make noise, but what if there were something to distract them?"

A big smile began to form on the Irishman's, "Christ! What are you saying?"

Sharpe grinned, "If we distracted Herron and his main force up at the gate, we'd overwhelm those bastards down there. We'd be home free!"

Patrick Harper gave a huge whoop, jumping into the air, "God save Ireland! It's brilliant!"

Sharpe nodded with grim satisfaction.

The next morning, Sharpe spoke with the sergeants and officers, "Before I tell you my plan, I must know how much gunpowder we have."

He waited patiently, knowing that their answer what they were going to influence how he'd work his plan.

Lewis answered first, "We actually brought 3 barrels of gunpowder. Kind of odd, since we had no special need for it."

"Well we do now. We're using it to get out of here."

MacGall smiled, "How?"

Sharpe looked at the wall facing Herron. "We're blowing that thing up."

Lewis choked on his water. MacGall thought about that, and remarked, "A diversion, Sharpe?" He had not called Sharpe 'sir' once the whole time since they met. Sharpe liked it better that way.

"Herron and the men in front will be deafened by the noise, and also, they'll be dodging rocks. In the meantime, we bolt down the rocks, take out the guards with bayonets, and steal their horses."

Sergeant Connelly raised a hand, "Assuming everyone knows how to ride a horse."

Sharpe thought of that. It made a bugger lot of sense.

He shrugged, "Then we'll just set them loose. They'll be panicking from the sound." That was true, and a panicked horse, if set loose, runs far.

It was settled. Everything depended on timing, and speed.

It was planned perfectly. Sharpe directed his men to lay the gunpowder under three parts of the wall facing Herron's main camp.

Trails winded like snakes across the ground to where Harper sat grinning, a torch held away from the trails. Sharpe and the rest were standing ready to head down the hill.

Sharpe looked at the men down below. It was a cloudy day, and the French were content to keep their shelters handy in case of a storm.

Sharpe smiled to himself. He waved his hand to Harper.

The time had come.

Harper lit each trail, an exact minute between each one. They caused the powder to crackle, as they went to the parts in the wall that would unleash the deadliest barrage Sharpe could ever provide.

Harper started running, "It's AWAY!"

Sharpe and the men charged down the hill. None had loaded guns; it would be a fight for the bayonets. Thinking of this, Sharpe thought of Wilkins.

Then he thought of the powder. Shouldn't it have reached the wall yet? Suddenly he was aware of something that he hadn't noticed.

It had begun to rain.

Everyone had stopped, realizing that their plan was ruined. Even now the French noticed them, and were rousing their companions.

Sharpe sighed. It would lead to another fight. And this time he knew that it was over.

"Sir! The powder under the wall is still dry!"

Sharpe turned.

Oliver Sanders, the singer with the angel voice, was hurtling towards the wall. He had Harper's abandoned torch in his hand.

Sharpe went into automatic action, "Sanders! Get back here!"

"Sir!" Harper restrained the lieutenant. "He's doing it for us! He's made up his mind."

Sharpe reluctantly started to run. No, he was running as fast as the rest of them, but he restrained the urge to look back several times. He hated losing his men, but one was making a sacrifice for them, and it would not be done in vain.

The wall exploded behind them. In all his life, Sharpe had never heard something so loud. He also felt its heat. Faintly too, were the screams of the French due to the chunks of rock crushing them.

The French in front of them were paralysed with shock. Many stood limp as the British and Portuguese ran past. Those that resisted were quickly killed.

Sharpe looked and saw MacGall and the 22nd scatter those horses that hadn't bolted. Lewis and the Portuguese were already plunging into the woods.

Sharpe looked at his riflemen. All were silent. They had known that Sanders had as good a chance to die as the others did, but it still hurt. Sharpe was unsure if it was rain, or tears on some of their faces.

Summoning up the courage, he called out, "Rifles, let's go home."

Slowly at first, the riflemen followed him to the way back to Lisbon. Back to where Hogan was waiting, or far more likely, bringing up reinforcements like he'd promised. They were no longer needed. The 22nd had been more than enough.

Sharpe looked back at those French mulling round. Whether Herron lived or not, it was irrelevant. Somehow, Sharpe knew that Herron would let them go. Enough men had died.

He looked at the men round him. Portuguese guerrillas, men of the 22nd, the flotsam and jetsam of the Second Battalion of the 95th Rifles.

All of them had fought harder than they had ever had to. But they would fight like that again, and again if they wanted to win. This war with Napoleon was far from over. It would be a long time before the Corsican Ogre was defeated, Sharpe thought. So they, the devils of the battlefield, the unwanted criminals, would fight like hell to stay alive.

And they were alive. They had fought a foe many times their number. A lesser force would have surrendered. But they had made a stand. And it had been their stand.

Sharpe's stand.


End file.
